


(May You Live In) Interesting Times

by eeyore9990



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Action, Awesome Sheriff Stilinski, BAMF Sheriff Stilinski, Eichen | Echo House, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Peter Feels, Peter is his own warning, Pre-Relationship, Pre-Slash, Sheriff Stilinski Feels, Sheriff Stilinski's Name is John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-19
Updated: 2016-06-19
Packaged: 2018-07-16 02:39:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7248757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eeyore9990/pseuds/eeyore9990
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the California Department of Health and Human Services decides to shut down Eichen House, Sheriff John Stilinski is left scrambling to empty out the supernatural ward before Beacon Hills' biggest secrets get out along with the patients.</p><p>—</p><p> </p><p>  <em>It was as that thought was occurring that Peter darted forward; John flinched back, but his human speed was no match for Peter.  Before the idea to move could fully reach John's muscles, Peter was on him, his thickly-muscled arms wrapping around John's torso as Peter went for his throat.  </em></p>
            </blockquote>





	(May You Live In) Interesting Times

**Author's Note:**

> For Shadogal for TW Glompfest. I really hope you enjoy this! Thank you so much for all your support and for being absolutely amazing. 
> 
> Deepest thanks to DrGirlfriend, Arabwel, and Leela for prereading, betaing, and generally cheering me on. Y'all are the best!

"Yes, ma'am," John said into the into the phone, his hand tightening so much on the handset that it creaked in his grip. "You can expect full cooperation from my department." He waited through the usual platitudes before offering a professional goodbye and gently setting the receiver back into the cradle. 

John gave himself a second to breathe before calling out to Parrish and taking his personal cellphone from his desk drawer. When Jordan paused in the doorway, John waved him in. "Shut the door," he muttered, thumbing through his contacts.

He paused over Stiles' contact — which Stiles had programmed in as #1 Son — before scrolling past to select Chris Argent from the list. Stiles was at Stanford; if the consensus was that they needed him, John would make the call, but the father in him balked at Stiles ever again stepping one foot inside that—

" _Sheriff_?"

The gruff voice on the line cut through John's thoughts and helped him focus on strategy. "Hey, Chris. We have an issue that's come up, a complicated one that may require your expertise," John said, then pulled the phone from his ear and pushed the speaker button. "Jordan Parrish is with me," he added as a courtesy. "I've got you on speaker."

" _Go ahead, Sheriff._ "

John's gaze flicked up to meet Jordan's as he drew in a deep, calming breath. "The State of California, specifically the head of the Department of Health and Human Services," and wasn't _that_ irony, "called me a few minutes ago. They're bringing a team to Beacon County to evacuate and shut down Eichen House."

"It's about damn time," Jordan muttered just as John heard Chris let out a muffled curse.

" _How long do we have?_ " Chris asked, and John felt a bit of the tension riding him begin to dissipate. 

Maybe Parrish hadn't caught on to the problem, but Chris had been born into this supernatural world as surely as Derek Hale had; he understood the severity of a bunch of bumbling state morons tripping their way into Eichen House. Of course, understanding the situation didn't mean they'd be able to actually prevent mass bloodshed or the secrets of Beacon Hills from being exposed.

Closing his eyes and rubbing at the bridge of his nose, John exhaled and admitted, "The state's team is driving up Monday morning."

_"Fuck. That only gives us three days."_

"Your optimism is heart-warming," John said dryly. "Two and a half, at best. I'm hoping we'll have time for clean-up before they get here."

"Sir?" Parrish asked, his eyes darting from John to the phone and back again, then flaring wide as the implications hit him. "Oh god," he whispered. "The supernatural ward."

John nodded grimly, then grabbed a pad of paper from his desk drawer, jotting down notes as Chris began to list off everything they'd need and the personnel they had at their disposal. As he wrote, John scribbled out and ripped off a list of questions for Parrish to deliver to both Alan Deaton and Melissa McCall.

Werewolves may not need medical attention, but John knew from his experiences with Lydia Martin that supernatural abilities didn't always come with super healing.

—

Pulling up outside of Eichen House with Parrish riding shotgun and Clark following them in her department SUV was a bit too reminiscent of the night John checked Stiles into this house of horrors. John slowed to a stop in front of the gates, hands clenched on the wheel, and just stared at the building for a moment before shoving the cruiser in park and nodding at Parrish to get out. 

They'd be meeting Chris here before storming the castle.

Clark was leaning against the trunk by the time they rounded the back of the cruiser, her hair pulled back into the style she wore in uniform; she was much too smart to go into a possible fight with it down. When John opened his trunk, she went straight for Stiles' back-up kit: mountain ash, wolfsbane, and a host of things they still weren't sure would work but certainly didn't hurt to have on hand.

"Do we know what all's in this place?" she asked, her voice a low murmur. 

John set his jaw, frowning and shaking his head. "Deaton's sister used to work here, but he was as tight-lipped as always. I'm hoping Chris Argent's contacts can offer us more, but for now…" John sighed. "Parrish is the only one of us that's actually been in that ward."

Scuffing his foot against the ground, Parrish ducked his head a little. "Yeah, I don't really remember that. Definitely not enough to give us any intel."

John reached a hand up and clapped it to Parrish's shoulder. "Not your fault, son. Besides, they could have changed out every cell since then. We go in expecting the worst. Load up one sidearm with aconite bullets, another with cold iron, and strap on a knife. We have each other's backs in there; we take it one cell at a time, and we don't move on until each inmate is secured."

"Patients," Parrish muttered, a muscle leaping on his jaw when John turned to him with a raised eyebrow. "Everything I know about this place? I'd bet most of the people locked up here don't deserve it."

John stilled, his hand spasming around the stock of a shotgun. "Parrish," he said, slow and careful. "We go in expecting the worst. I need you with me on this. I can't bring you in with me just to watch you go down because you weren't being careful."

Parrish blinked and when his eyelids lifted, the flames were burning behind his irises. "I'm good to go, sir, but I think we need to acknowledge that these people? They're just as much victims as Lydia Martin was. I won't let my guard down, but I won't deliver unnecessary violence on people who've known too much of that already."

"Just as long as your soft-heartedness doesn't land me with a fresh set of scars," a vaguely familiar female voice called out from the darkness beyond the reach of the two sets of headlights. 

John squinted toward where he could hear the light tread of footsteps on asphalt headed their way, his grip on the shotgun going sure and steady as he pulled it from the trunk and swung it across his body. Three people slowly resolved from the darkness: Braeden, Chris Argent, and Isaac Lahey.

"I thought I said we weren't involving the kids," John said, his voice clear in the night air, anger biting through him at the violation of his orders. 

"I make my own decisions, Sheriff. And don't think Stiles and Scott will be all that happy that you're going into this on your own. Stiles especially." Isaac flicked his claws out, the move a little showy for John's tastes. "Besides, I'm not a kid. None of us are. We're all adults now, and to be honest, I didn't have anything better to do on a Friday night." Isaac's slow smile was all sharp teeth and vague warning.

"Lahey, you're eighteen. Couldn't you just go to Jungle, like the other kids your age? Or, you know, cram for an exam? Something?" John shook his head, then turned to Chris. "Anything happens to him—"

"—it's on my head. I know. Trust me, I tried to talk him out of it, but it was let him tag along or have the entire pack here. I thought this was the best option," Chris said, mouth curving down in aggravation even as John caught the hint of pride in his eyes.

John huffed an irritated sigh, but nodded. There wasn't much he could do about it at this point, and he knew better than to tell any of the kids to keep their nose out of something they already knew too much about. That'd just have them running in without backup. "Fine, but you're going in with more than claws and fangs, kid. Take one of these." John pulled several sets of police vests from the trunk, handing them around to everyone. "As of right now, you're each working under the full authority of the Beacon County Sheriff's department. As the appointed sheriff, I have the right to deputize civilians in an emergency, which is what I'm doing now. If anything happens to me, Parrish is the second in command as the most senior ranking deputy sheriff. Then Clark, then you, Chris, then Braeden. Isaac, you were never here." When Isaac started to protest, John turned the full weight of his displeased gaze on him. "You. Were never. Here."

"Sir?" Clark asked, stepping forward. "What are we doing with the… patients," she said with a little nod toward Parrish, "after we free them?"

"We're transporting them to the animal clinic. As our resident Druid, Deaton assures me he can accept responsibility for the people we bring out. We'll work in teams, taking one person at a time to the clinic. Chris?" John stepped back and let Chris take over.

"My vehicle is the transport. Clark will drive, I'll ride shotgun, the sheriff will take point in his cruiser, and Parrish and Braeden will cover our six. Isaac, you'll ride Braeden's bike in case anyone manages to get free and go off-road." 

John nodded his approval; he and Chris had hastily mapped out a plan earlier in the evening, but Isaac hadn't been part of it. He grudgingly admitted it would be good to have someone who could give chase in a worst-case scenario, on two wheels or by foot. 

"Our route?" Parrish asked.

John pulled out his phone and opened up Google maps, expanding it so everyone could see the highlighted route. "Shortest is best. We have no reason to expect any resistance from outside forces, so we'll travel down 170 and then take Main to the clinic. We're going in the back door with everyone," the adults rolled their eyes when Isaac let out a snicker, "so we'll circle the building and back up the transport to the doors. We'll get that patient into containment and then once everyone is good to go, we come back for the next patient. When we go in, Clark, you're with Argent's team. Braeden, you're with me."

"Sir?" Clark asked, her eyebrows winging up.

"I want at least one full deputy on each team in case someone tries to question us, and this division gives each team a bit of supernatural strength." John let the night settle around them for a bit, let each of the others have a moment to think, before he added, "Any questions?"

When no one spoke up, he nodded and strapped his gun belt on. "Then load up."

—

Amazingly, the night didn't go to hell right away. There was the expected blustering from the clerk in the lobby, but apparently the workers all knew about the pending shutdown, because even that was halfhearted at best. The first five patients went like clockwork, with their teams working flawlessly; after Chris' team took one out with John's team providing backup, John's team took point for the next patient. Really, all they had to do was tell most of the patients they were being rescued, and they settled down and walked out under their own steam. A few had to be sedated, but Isaac was quick and gentle enough to earn a nod of approval from Parrish.

It was as they were entering the sixth cell that, well. Shit happened.

There was a loud buzzing noise that had Isaac flinching and covering his ears with both hands and even made the rest of them startle a bit, then the cell doors down the long, institutional-grey hallway each came unlocked at once. John had been in enough prisons to know exactly what that sound meant.

Someone, most likely a disgruntled orderly, had hit the emergency unlock in the main office. 

John shared a pinch-eyed look with Chris before backing quickly out of the doorway where he was providing cover and used his frame to block the hallway. A… something... with scales across his face came rushing into the hallway first, his mouth opening as he emitted a screeching sound, his split tongue flickering in the air even as his bright, sickly yellow eyes flickered all around.

John cursed softly as the creature easily scaled the walls with bare hands and feet and skittered across the ceiling of the hallway, coming straight for John. A shotgun blast at close range momentarily deafened John while simultaneously sending a huge chunk of the ceiling crashing to the floor, plaster dust rising in the air. John kept his gun pointed even as he grumbled at Braeden for not giving him some warning. Not that he could hear her response over the ringing in his ears.

She shouldered past him, though, stalking down the hallway, chasing after the creature that had changed direction after she'd taken out the path in front of it. Braeden made hand-signals at him, urging John to check the third cell on the right, so he shook his head a bit and moved forward, waving Parrish toward Chris and jerking his head at Clark to get her to cover his back.

They never made it to the cell Braeden had indicated, the hallway too filled with patients, some of whom just looked scared and some who were licking their lips at him and Clark like they were a walking buffet. And maybe they were, but John wasn't planning to be anyone's midnight snack.

Not today. 

With help from Isaac, who had joined them out of nowhere — probably at Chris' urging — they were able to subdue those who seemed the most likely to attack, and had the others walking under their own steam, with John and Clark covering them in case they suddenly decided to turn tables and attack. As they walked past the reception desk, where the orderly who'd given them grief when they first arrived had abandoned his post, John reached out and grabbed a set of keys. 

They were going to need more vehicles to get this lot back to Deaton's.

Once they were outside, John hit the unlock button on the keyfob, grunting in satisfaction when he saw the lights go off on a Tahoe with the Eichen House emblem on the side. "As Sheriff of Beacon County, I'm commandeering your vehicle for the use of the Beacon County Sheriff's Department. It will be returned to you as soon as possible." John caught a look from a pale, too-skinny patient with large eyes and shrugged. "Gotta do this by the book," he offered as an explanation.

She just blinked at him before turning away again.

Like a gift from the heavens, the Tahoe was equipped with a mesh screen and seat restraints. Probably not enough to keep someone with supernatural strength from breaking free, but it'd give the driver and passenger enough time to stop the vehicle and get the situation under control. Hopefully. Once the Tahoe was loaded up with the worst of the lot — Braeden riding shotgun, literally, while Isaac got behind the wheel — he patted the side of the vehicle and turned to look at Clark. 

"I can handle this bunch, sir." She waved a hand to indicate the three blank-eyed but calm patients. "I don't like to leave Parrish in there alone with a civilian. Even if that civilian is a hunter with Mr. Argent's qualifications…" She shook her head, her mouth twisting up a little.

John hesitated, but the flash of headlights behind him made him turn to see Isaac gesturing him over. "We'll follow Deputy Clark," Braeden said, leaning around Isaac to talk to John through the opened driver's side window but not taking her gaze off the restrained patients in the back of the Tahoe. "If she so much as swerves, we'll be on top of her."

"I don't like us being split up like this," John said, running a hand through his hair. 

Isaac flinched a little, his eyes widening as he said, "Did you hear that?" John looked at him, eyebrows raised and mouth open to ask, only to be shut down when Isaac hissed, the wheel creaking under his grip. "Gunshots. I—" When he looked like he was about to bolt from the vehicle, John reached out and slapped the door lock down.

"Go," he ordered, gun already in hand. "Get them to Deaton. Protect Clark. I've got this."

Isaac's voice, already mid-argument, cut off behind him as John turned and sprinted turned the building. He pulled his walkie from his gun belt and keyed it, hoping Clark was tuned to his channel. "Clark, if you can hear me, run lights and haul ass."

There was a brief crackle of static then, "Sir? I don't think Argent has… oh wait. He's got a dash light. On it, sir."

John let out a sigh of relief and picked up the pace, bursting through the doors and taking the stairs two at a time. He knew he'd feel that in his knees and quads the next day, but for now, he let the rush of adrenaline sweep him along until he got to the cell where all the commotion was taking place. 

Chris was at the door of a cell, gun out and pointed while flickering light illuminated his face. "We're not here to hurt you," Chris stated in a hard voice, his mouth curled down at the corners. He flicked his gaze to John and stepped to the side to allow John entrance to the cell. 

A blast of heat made John flinch back a little and shield his eyes to see around Parrish, who had gone all Johnny Storm on them. In the corner of the cell opposite Parrish was a crouched figure with glowing blue eyes and long, sharp canines, forehead bulging and fur sprouting from his pointed ears to his jaw...

"Shit," John whispered, edging around Parrish. "Stand down, Jordan," he murmured on his way past. "It's Peter Hale."

"John," Chris called warningly, his booted feet scraping across the cell floor as he shuffled further into it. 

Peter whipped his head toward the sound, snarling and snapping so much that John's finger went from the trigger guard to the trigger, even as he continued to move forward.

"Peter," John said in his calmest, hostage-negotiator voice, "we're here to get you out. We're taking you to Alan Deaton."

Saliva dripped off Peter's fangs as he snapped his face back toward John, his growls rising in pitch at the mention of Deaton's name. John looked into his eyes and… and saw nothing. Not even a hint of humanity. There was nothing but animal fear in those eyes.

"Hale," John spoke sharply, trying to jar Peter out of whatever state he was in. "We're here to help you." Waving his free hand behind his back, he muttered, "Turn it the fuck off, Deputy."

"John. _Sheriff_. I don't think this is a good idea," Chris started to say, when Peter lunged.

John moved to intercept him, gun up, and it wasn’t until he had the barrel of his service revolver against Peter’s forehead that the truth hit him in a stunning moment of clarity. 

He wasn't letting another goddamn Hale die in his town. Not even _this_ Hale.

Thankfully, Peter halted as soon as John touched him, his growls taking on a hint of a whine, a questioning sound that John couldn't help responding to. 

"Chris," John called, moving his finger off the trigger and then slowly lowering his weapon. "I'd like to still have a throat in the morning, so I'm going to need you to back out of here. Let me handle this."

"That's a really fucking terrible idea, John."

"I don't want to bring up all the hundreds of reasons Peter might feel threatened by your presence, Chris, but I'll detail them if I need to." John moved slowly, exaggerating his movements as he holstered his gun, his opposite hand held aloft in a non-threatening manner even as he brought his gun hand up, palm out. "Hale isn't going to hurt me. He's just scared and… not himself right now." John really fucking hoped Hale wasn't going to hurt him.

"He's feral, John. Goddammit, I can see that from here."

"Sir." Parrish's voice was a smooth and soothing counterpoint to the gruffness of Chris'. "Not to be insubordinate, but I'm definitely siding with Mr. Argent on this one."

"Parrish, do you even have clothes on at this point?"

"Uh…"

"You don't get to argue with me until you have some underwear on, Deputy. Take Mr. Argent and go see if we have any stragglers. I've got this situation under control." _Please,_ John prayed to whomever might be listening, _let me have this situation under control._

"John," he heard again, and John's forced calm snapped.

"Goddammit, Argent, get the hell out of this cell before _you_ get me killed. Both of you, _leave_." Before he even finished speaking, he heard their footsteps retreat and he was suddenly alone. In an enclosed cell. With a werewolf who was at best out of control. 

At worst? At worst, John was standing unarmed against a feral beast who could rip his throat out before he could blink.

It was as that thought was occurring that Peter darted forward; John flinched back, but his human speed was no match for Peter. Before the idea to move could fully reach John's muscles, Peter was on him, his thickly-muscled arms wrapping around John's torso as Peter went for his throat. 

All the things John had never done, all the mistakes and victories of his life flashed through his mind's eye in that moment… and the moment went on. Instead of the wrenching horror of having his throat violently removed from his body via Peter Hale's teeth, he felt the rough scratch of bristly facial hair, the press of a nose, the faint scrape of the flat edge of bare teeth. 

Instead of killing him, Peter was _scenting_ him, rubbing his face in John's neck as he continued making those high-pitched, whining growls. There was the prick of claws against his back, pressing into the flesh through his shirt, but not going deep enough to break the skin. John was being actively _cuddled_ by a feral werewolf, and he realized he hadn't a single clue what he was meant to do about that.

Feeling awkward, John lifted a hand and set it down on top of Peter's head, stroking slowly through the thick hair there. He kept that up until Peter relaxed against him, going quiet and complacent. Then John pushed, just a little, just to see if he _could_ dislodge Peter's face from such a vulnerable place.

Peter grabbed on tighter, a growl rumbling through the air and vibrating against John's chest. 

"All right, then," John said, breathing out a gusty sigh. "I guess I'm stuck with you."

—

Getting out to the cruiser was easier said than done, but the clock hadn't yet hit 3 a.m. when John was driving through the backside of town toward the warehouse district. Chris and Isaac had been dispatched to the animal clinic with one last patient, the one with the scaly face who had managed to hide in the air ducts until Isaac sniffed him out. Peter himself was curled over the front seat after violently rejecting the back seat, his face pressed along John's side in a way that would be impossible to explain if any of his deputies were to flag him over now.

But it was fine, or would be. John had a key to Derek Hale's old loft and a plan: get Peter settled in and use up some of his sick time for the next few days… or until the California DHHS rolled into town. 

Dammit, he had no time to babysit a feral werewolf right now. 

John tightened his grip on the wheel, feeling the tension climbing his shoulders and neck to settle at the base of his skull. He was going to have one hell of a headache in the morning. 

As he turned into the rut-riddled parking lot adjacent to Derek's building, John spared a glance at Peter, relief flooding him as he noticed the roundness of Peter's ears and the lack of muttonchops. At least he didn't have to smuggle a half-shifted werewolf through the streets. He just had to figure out a way to get Peter to willingly follow him up seven flights of stairs.

Or, considering the way he was snoring lightly as he drooled down John's side, _carry_ him.

John really wasn't paid enough for this.

"Screw it," he muttered to himself, throwing the cruiser in park and shutting off the engine. "I'm not carrying your heavy ass." Reaching into his glove box, John pulled out a bag of beef jerky and nudged Peter gently. When Peter flinched awake, lip pulled back from blunt, human teeth, John took out a strip of the jerky and waved it in front of his face. "If you want _this_ ," he said in his most cajoling voice, "you'll follow me without—"

John stared down at his fingers, counting them carefully while Peter gnawed on the strip of meat he'd snapped right out of John's grip. With his teeth.

"All right, then." John blew out a breath and narrowed his eyes on Peter. "I'm going upstairs. You're going to come with me." Putting deed to word, John popped open the door and climbed out of the cruiser, staggering when Peter knocked into his back in his rush to follow John. "I was going to walk around and help you out, but okay. This works too." Shaking his head, John walked toward the building. He didn't even need to check to make sure Peter was following since Peter was nearly plastered against him the entire way, only leaving John's side to occasionally sniff at the air before quickly returning.

By the time John slid the heavy metal door shut with Peter on the _right_ side of it, John was ready to fall on his face and sleep for twenty hours. Instead, though, he barred the open apartment as much as he was able, even blocking the balcony door in case Peter decided to attempt to leave that way. Once that was done, he returned to the open living space, lifting one eyebrow when he saw Peter splayed out across the large, slightly-dusty, bare mattress in the middle of the room.

For a minute, John considered just leaving him there. The area where the loft was located was basically deserted; if he shut and blocked the door behind him, there was every chance Peter would still be here in the morning after John'd had time to go home for sleep, a shower, and a shave. 

John sighed, discarded that plan, and stripped his gun belt and shoes off, shoving them into a closet and shutting the door. After another moment's thought, he took off his uniform as well, draping it over the circular staircase railing. 

Exhaustion weighing down his limbs, John threw caution to the wind and prodded at Peter until he, with a grumbling growl, rolled over enough to give John room to stretch out on his side. John didn't remember anything after his head hit the mattress.

—

The sensation of being watched startled John into wakefulness the next morning. Rolling over, he groaned to see Peter Hale staring at him from less than a foot away. 

"Any chance you're something more than pre-verbal today?" John asked, scrubbing a hand over his face. When he didn't immediately receive an answer, he sighed and dropped his arm back to the bed, trying to organize his cotton-wool thoughts. "Yeah, thought not. Okay, I'm making coffee. There will be no growling until I've had my first cup or I'll… growl." Shaking his head, John rolled out of the bed, wincing at the aches he'd gained the previous night, and started toward the kitchen. Limping along in deference to the popping of his joints, he sighed. "Jesus, John. What the hell have you—"

"Do you always talk to yourself first thing in the morning?"

John spun around, eyes wide and hand going to his side automatically. He probably looked like a damn fool, sitting there clutching at the waistband of his plain white boxers. "You're talking," he said, pointing at Peter, who just blinked back up at him.

"You're observant." There was the slightly hoarse quality of disuse to Peter's voice, but the edge of sarcasm was as finely honed as John remembered from their brief acquaintance.

Narrowing his eyes, John pointed a finger at Peter. "You know, this level of attitude from the man who was two steps removed from belonging in my K9 unit last night is really uncalled for. Especially since I haven't had my coffee yet this morning."

Peter went still, the sort of stillness that spoke of fragility. "What… happened last night?"

John shook his head and continued into the kitchen, searching for all the items necessary to get coffee into him soonest. "Derek better have left some goddamn coffee in this place," he muttered, pulling out and plugging in the abandoned drip coffee pot as he lifted his voice so that it would carry into the other room. "DHHS is shutting down Eichen House. We had to evacuate the supernatural ward and…" John paused, frowning as he rinsed the pot. "Do you remember any of it?"

"You don't have to shout; I could hear you clearly if you were whispering from three floors down." 

John startled as Peter's voice came from just behind him, elbow bumping the years-old container of coffee grounds. Thankfully the dust-covered plastic lid was still fastened around it, so he just continued with what he was doing. "Yes, right. What do you remember?"

"I remember Mexico."

The mess John had avoided mere moments before happened at that bland statement, coffee grounds spilling across the counter as the scoop slipped from his suddenly-numb fingers. He breathed carefully, then added two extra scoops of coffee to the filter before lowering the lid and pushing the start button. "All right, then," he muttered, mostly to himself. "Okay. Mexico."

John swept the spilled grounds into the sink as coffee began to slowly drip into the pot, hissing and spitting occasionally. Finally, he turned to Peter and said, "You don't remember being in Eichen House."

The skin around Peter's eyes twitched a bit before he pursed his lips and looked away. "I… I vaguely remember the trip there. It's far-away. Fuzzy."

"Do you know why?"

"Hmm?" Peter glanced back at him, blinking quickly. "Oh, yes. It's because I was drugged."

John stared at him, the slow burn of anger beginning to fill him. "Who the hell drugged you?"

Peter tilted his head, looking too much like a confused pet. "Scott, of course."

"You're going to have to explain that one to me," John muttered, rapping his knuckles against the counter as he mentally reviewed everything he knew of Scott's class schedule. He was going to kill that little shit if he really had _anything_ to do with putting another human being, or… well, another sentient being anyway, in Eichen House. "Why the _hell_ would Scott McCall be responsible for putting you there."

"Because I tried to kill him." 

John had heard many confessions in his life; this was his first attempted-murder confession. So it was to be expected that he took a step back, suddenly wary of the man in front of him in a way he hadn't been since they'd left the cell the night before. "Not to be repetitive, but…"

Peter quirked a half-smile. "It was the first time the boy showed true promise as an Alpha. It was quite cutthroat of him; I'd be proud if it hadn't been directed at me."

John shook his head and muttered, "Fuck it," pulling down a chipped coffee mug and pouring the few inches of coffee that had gathered in the pot. Carrying his mug to the scarred, mismatched table and chairs, John sat and indicated the space across from him. "Sit down. We have… a _lot_ to talk about."

"Such as?" Peter turned his chair around, straddling it as his gaze dropped quickly to the cup of coffee John was cradling like a newborn.

"Don't even think about it," John muttered, taking a long sip that burned all the way down. "First of all, I suppose I should tell you that the entire Mexico thing happened almost two years ago." John paused for a moment to let Peter deal with the shock of that before he continued. "I'm not sure what happened between Mexico and last night, but I feel it's safe to assume you've been in Eichen House the entire time."

"I… all right." 

"All right?" John asked, gaping. "I just told you you lost two years of your life, and that's your response?"

"It wouldn't be the first time I woke up missing entire years of my life," Peter said softly, acid underscoring his words. Then he shrugged. "It was Scott's prerogative as Alpha to determine my punishment. He was less brutal than I would have been in his position. His weakness will eventually be his downfall."

John took that in, then brushed it aside as something he could circle back around to when he felt capable of handling it. There wasn't enough coffee in the pot yet. "You were… feral," John said instead. "When we tried to take you out of Eichen, you fought us."

" _We_?" Peter looked up. "Who is 'we’?"

"Chris Argent," John politely ignored the way Peter snarled at the name, "along with myself, two of my deputies, Braeden, and Isaac Lahey."

"Not the rest of the pack?"

John drummed his fingers on the table, considering how much detail to go into. "Derek never returned from Mexico. Well, he came back to the U.S., but not to Beacon Hills. Scott and Stiles are away at college and the other kids… They're _kids_. I don't want the same thing happening to them as happened to the Reyes girl and Boyd. Or as happened to Allison Argent. Hell, even Scott, Stiles, and Lydia have scars they'll never fully heal from."

Peter was silent for a long moment, eyes locked on the table as he processed the information John had imparted. Then, he nodded. "I see." A somewhat awkward silence descended before Peter pushed to his feet and said, "Well, Sheriff. I would like to thank you for liberating me from Eichen House. I'll just be—"

"Where the hell do you think you're going?"

"There is quite a lot of paperwork involved in resurrecting oneself," Peter said, a wry twist to his lips. "Thankfully, I've quite a lot of experience with it. After all, this will be my second? No, _third_ go-round."

"Sit your ass down, Hale," John said, the order sharp and steely. "Just because you're not in Eichen House anymore doesn't mean I think you should be free to wander the streets. By your own admission, you tried to murder a young man that I happen to view as a second son. So if you think I'm going to let you just wander off to do it again, you're sadly mistaken."

Peter stared at him, his lips quirking at the corners, though the humor didn't reach his eyes. "I find it charming how you believe that you could stop me."

"I'll put you down before I let you hurt anyone else," John promised, letting his absolute certainty fill his voice. He didn't care that he was sitting there in his undershirt and boxers. He didn't need pants to shoot a self-described murderer.

Going still, Peter held John's gaze, his eyes bleak. "I have no intention of hurting anyone, but I'm not going to allow myself to become a victim. If it takes slaughtering the entire world around me, I will. No hunter, no _veterinarian_ , and certainly no small town sheriff is going to stop me."

The mention of the veterinarian made John narrow his eyes, pointing a finger right at Peter. "Don't make me regret not bringing you to Deaton with the other patients last night. I could easily have done so, but I wasn't going to just dump a feral werewolf on him when he had so many others to deal with."

Peter sucked in a sharp breath, his nostrils flaring as his eyes burned blue. His hands wrapped around the back of the other chair, the wood creaking. For several long moments, he obviously struggled with some inner turmoil before he began to speak in a whisper that gained volume with every new word. "How did you feel when you discovered that your wife was dying and there was nothing you could do to save her? You said I was feral last night? Sheriff, I've been feral since…" Peter's face twisted into an ugly expression before he barked out a harsh laugh. "I don't even know how long it's been. It still feels as though I just lost them. As though I just lost _her._ Amanda was my anchor, and without her I…" He shook his head, calming abruptly. "Lock me away or put me down. Those are your options. Otherwise, I _will_ be Alpha. I will never again allow myself to be powerless in the face of hunters."

"Do you think werewolves have cornered the market on grief? When Claudia… we lost her long before she died." John stared down into his coffee, seeing nothing but the blank stare of confusion on Claudia's face. "All the strength in my body, all the power of my position, and there was nothing I could do but watch her die."

"And look what a paragon you became. A true lesson for the rest of us." Peter's mockery only stirred John's anger. "There are only so many white hats in this world, Sheriff. Some of us have to be the villain so you can ride in and save the day."

"You want to talk about going feral?" John sat forward, shoving his coffee away as disgust twisted through him. "I dove into a bottle, a never-ending _series_ of bottles. I worked fifteen hours a day, most of them while functionally drunk. I stayed out, went to bars, ignored my kid because I couldn't stand to look at him. I couldn't look into his face without seeing my dead wife. I have no memory of his sixth grade graduation. He sure does, though, because I got blackout drunk and threw a bottle at his head that night. I told Stiles, a twelve year old kid who'd just buried his mother, that it should have been him. That's the night Melissa McCall took my son away from me." John took in the micro-expressions that spoke of Peter's surprise. "She waited for me to sober up. Told me everything that had happened in excruciating detail. But as bad as that night was? All I can think of is what happened the nights she wasn't there. What other horrors did I inflict on my son that I don't even remember? You think you're the first monster he ever met? Stand in line." John grabbed his coffee back and scrubbed a hand over the back of his neck, feeling his age in every joint. "You're not the only one to lose your anchor to humanity, to lose years of your life."

"Our situations are far from the same." Peter's voice shook, even as his face went still, blank.

"I know. I was a monster by choice."

Peter sliced a hand through the air, lips twisting in fury. "They _murdered her._ Trapped her inside our home and burned it down with her inside."

"And now they're dead." At Peter's shocked jerk, John sighed, closing his eyes. There was so much Peter didn't know. So much he'd missed. "Chris killed Kate. It was witnessed by Araya and Severo Calavera as well as Braeden. They burned her body. Gerard died slow and painfully. Stiles did," John shrugged, " _something_ to ensure he stayed dead."

"There are still hunters out there."

"And there are still twenty-car pileups on Highway 1. Still hospital wards full of cancer victims and Alzheimer's patients."

"What?"

"Life will never be perfect. We can't control everything. Power is a figment of our imagination; it exists only to be stripped away when we least expect it. Your sister was a powerful Alpha, and even she couldn't stop the hunters. Even with a large, strong pack. Chasing power has only led to your downfall. Maybe…" John splayed his hands.

The light from the windows caught the shadows under Peter's eyes, making him look as exhausted as John felt. "Maybe what?"

"Maybe try something different this time." Hell, the suggestion made sense to John, but of course Peter just snorted.

"There isn't anything else. Not for me."

The amount of melodrama inherent in that statement, paired with the way Peter turned to stare off into the distance, made John echo Peter's earlier snort. Then he shook his head, trying to bring common sense back into the equation. "There could be."

"Like what?"

"Accounting?" John scowled at himself, wincing. "Sorry, that was flippant. I don't know, Peter. But I promise you there's something out there. Something different. Come home with me." John felt Peter's shock echoing in his very veins, but… it wasn't the craziest thing ever. "When I needed help, when I needed to stop my own cycle of self-destructive despair, I had someone. Let me be that person for you." John reached out, offering his hand. "Come home with me, Peter. You don't have to do this alone."

"So you're just going to open your home to me?" Peter laughed, a bitter sound. "What is it you really want from me, Sheriff? Because no one invites strangers into their home without wanting something in exchange."

"I want you to stop trying to kill Scott, for one thing," John stated blandly before turning the handle of his coffee mug back and forth in his grip. "And… my offer is not completely altruistic, I suppose. The house is too cold, too quiet these days. It would be nice to have someone to share a meal with, a conversation." John stopped there, let the silence settle between them as he watched Peter, watched him weigh the offer and turn it over and over, studying it from every angle.

"I'm not something you can tame, Sheriff."

"Good." John rolled his eyes at Peter's disbelieving look. "I'm not in the market for a pet. I have room, and I could use the company. And from what I know of werewolves, being alone is… problematic. I think this arrangement would benefit us both." John paused, let that statement settle before he added softly, "And if it doesn't, if I think you're a danger to others, I promise you that I'll come at you from the front. If you lose more years, it'll be because I put you in the ground. I won't attack your blind side; I don't operate in the shadows."

Peter dipped his chin in acknowledgement of John's words, but apparently couldn't resist being a little shit. "I've crawled out of the ground before."

"You wouldn't after I was done with you."

Lips quirking, Peter asked lightly, "What does it say about me that I find your threats comforting?"

John huffed. "Pretty sure it means you're seriously messed up, but then… aren't we all?" Standing, John swigged the last mouthful of his now-cold coffee and went to the sink, rinsing it before returning the mug to the cabinet and unplugging the machine. He'd come back later to clean up and maybe stock the place with some non-perishable food.

Having a safe house wasn't a bad idea in this town.

As John walked across the open loft to where he'd draped his clothes the night before, he thought to ask, "What _did_ you do for a living, anyway? Before… everything, I mean. There's got to be something you can do to keep busy so you're not plotting ways to grab power."

"Children's book author."

John fumbled his uniform pants, dropping them to the ground. "You're shitting me."

"I was hailed as the next J.K. Rowling."

"I don't believe it," John muttered, bending over to grab his pants, absently patting them to make sure his things were still in the pockets. 

"Your son had three of my books on his shelf. Well, last time I found myself in his bedroom, that is."

John fumbled the button on his pants, narrowing his eyes at Peter. "Why the hell were you in my son's room?"

"Relax. For all my many sins, I've never had an interest in children." Peter crossed the room to stand next to John, picking up his uniform shirt and shaking it open to help John into it. "I prefer my men with a bit more experience," he murmured into John's ear, smoothing the material over John's shoulders.

John rolled his eyes and shook his head, moving away from Peter as he swiftly buttoned his shirt, haphazardly tucking it in. "Very funny." He grabbed his things from the closet and sat on the bed, putting his shoes on. His gun belt he just shrugged over his shoulder. "Keys, wallet, phone," he muttered to himself as he patted his pockets. "You ready?" he asked, looking at Peter and taking in the fact that he was still wearing the clothes he'd left Eichen House in. "You can borrow some of my clothes when we get to the house."

"How generous." Peter's gaze was steady, a little more intense than John was accustomed to as he watched John walk across the room to the door that Peter had already unblocked and opened. "And what makes you think I was joking?" he asked as he slipped around John and out the door.

John watched him go through wide eyes, too startled by Peter's words to do much of anything but stand there with his mouth parted in shock. Finally, he snapped his jaw shut and stepped out into the hallway, shutting the door behind him. "What the fuck have you gotten yourself into this time, John?" Peter's laughter echoed up the stairwell, making John curse softly at getting caught talking to himself _again_. 

"I guess we're _both_ about to find out."

Well. He sure didn't know the future, but one thing was certain: no matter what, with Peter Hale around, life was about to get a lot more interesting.

**Author's Note:**

> When I was struggling for an ending, Dizzy suggested, "And they banged happily ever after."
> 
> /stares into the camera like I'm on The Office, one lonely tear rolling down my cheek


End file.
